


A Paradox in Love

by Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, M/M, shippy thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 12:43:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15582267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome/pseuds/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome
Summary: Enjolras can't sleep, because the word love seems to mean different things to different people.And just who gave permission to Grantaire to use that word, anyway





	A Paradox in Love

Enjolras didn’t think about love. Well, he didn't think about love in the way some used the word. Some, like the certain person who had decided to use the word today.

Some, who were clearly wrong.

Enjolras thought plenty about love of one’s country, about love of the citizens, about love, the ideal. Love, the thing to strive toward. A world full of love would have no need of revolution. If each person loved each other, he could rest, knowing that no longer injustice and greed ruled the world. Love was supposed to bring harmony to a person, make them happy, make them at peace. 

So yes, he thought a great deal of the concept of love, as it has been recorded by great proclaimers and politicians.

He thought nothing of the love transcribed by poets and dreamers. That sort of love made things messy, confusing, painful. How many times had Courfeyrac cried over love like that? How many times had  he watched love between his friends turn bitter and sharp? Love like the poets proclaimed destroyed things, broke things, shattered one’s world. Marius had wandered lost like a shipwrecked man when he’d thought he lost love.

Which was why the poets had to be wrong. If love was wonderful, it could not also be terrible. If love could build, it could not also decimate. It must be one or the other.

Love should be perfect, unyielding, crystal-clear, and diagrammed. Enjolras should be able to know exactly what was, if it truly existed. It should never confuse him, nor cause him to lay away, staring up at the ceiling, replaying moments and smiles and strange fluttering of his heart, searching for answers.

Love should be kind. It should never mock or allow itself to be mocked. It shouldn't be said with a sarcastic little drawl, or a smirk that made one think about kisses... especially when that one had never thought about kissing before.  Love should certainly not be some sort of powderkeg, that once verbalized, made the beloved one incapable of eating or sleeping, or thinking of anything... except love. 

And maybe kisses.

No. Certainly not kisses. He had a revolution to plan! He had no time for kisses. He might, if his schedule allowed it, consider a small amount of time dedicated to love, but only if it was the sort of love that was both helpful and useful. A love that would, well, perhaps, make him have more hours in the day? No. That was impossible. Love could not help Enjolras in his mission. 

Love was a luxury, a gift, a pleasure that he simply didn't have time for. 

So, then, why, knowing all those things, had those words left Grantaire’s mouth today?

“I love you.”

Because if love did exist, if it was real and good and true, then it could not so easily be passed off as a mistake, a slip of the tongue.  
Did Grantaire love him, then? Was that true, what he’d said?

There was only one way to find out.

He crossed the streets quickly, his boots clicking against the pavement. The moonlight more than enough to illuminate his path to a door. When he knocked on the door, it only took one knock before it opened.

And Grantaire stood there.

Messy, Imperfect, Grantaire.

Enjolras folded his arms. “What does love mean?” he asked, as condescending as a teacher to a student caught skipping class. “To you, specifically. Tell me, when you said, I love you, what does that love mean?”

The man tilted his head, smiling.

Why was he smiling? That wasn’t part of the plan. This was… messy, now. Yes. Messy. And if it was messy, it couldn’t be…

“You,” Grantaire said. “When I say love, it means you.”

Enjolras shook his head hard enough the tie holding his wild blond main slipped out, the curls tumbling over his shoulders. “That doesn’t make any sense. You’re wrong! Love is perfect, is kind, changes the world. It cannot be…”

And now, Grantaire’s hand was in his hair. Grantaire’s paint-stained, nail-bitten imperfect hand was in his angelic golden hair, pulling him closer. “Love is those things, sure.” He smiled. “But so are you.”

Grantaire kissed him. It was messy and perfect, kind and demanding, world-changing and world-burning, all the opposites united in one perfect paradox.  
That was what they were. A paradox.

And they were love.


End file.
